My Moment in High Fashion

This afternoon, I head out to visit the Bibliotheque nationale de France (BnF) François Mitterand, the national library in Paris, a building along the Seine in the 13th arrondissement notorious for being ugly. It turns out, however, that the building I have always thought was the BnF is actually the Insitute Français de la Mode (IFM, French Institute of Fashion), which is a building along the Seine in the 13th arrondissement notorious for being ugly. Understandable error, perhaps. But they are ugly in drastically different ways:

UGLY BY DESIGN: Institute Français de la Mode

I admit: That last photo (taken from http://projets-architecte-urbanisme.fr/docks-en-seine-cite-mode-design-paris-rive-gauche/) looks almost attractive. Almost.

UGLY BY THE BOOK: Bilbliotheque nationale de France

(Photo of the Bibliotheque nationale de France François Mitterand taken from www.france-for-visitors.com ). Are they meant to respresent two half-open books? Book-ends? Just some tall modern-looking buildings?

At the IFM but still unaware I am at the wrong building, I follow people upstairs and see a sign for an exhibition. Artist? Illustrator? Something special put on by the library? And then I walk in to a room that is a) clearly not a library entrance and b) filled with racks of clothing, shelves of shoes, tables with laptops, and chic, high-heeled people, many of them Asian, milling about and looking like they belong. There is even a bar serving coffee and pastries. What isn't there is a price on anything or any obvious salespeople, so it becomes clear to me pretty quickly that I am an interloper.

I have inadvertantly wandered into a show for Lanvin, a fashion designer. I end up taking prohibited photos of Lanvin's first-ever winter line for children. Below, front left, is an approximately 1,000€ rain coat that you may be seeing next year in magazines and high-end children's clothing stores but not, actually, on my children. Like triple-cream brie on the dinner plate of a recent heart-attack victim, it's just too rich for my blood. 

The mini-dress dress on one of the several impossibly tall, thin, pale models wandering around, is about 3,800€. Though it isn't an evening gown, it does have some intricate detail; but still, your guess about price of the evening gowns below is as good as mine. Or, if you have any fashion sense and/or buy your clothes at expensive boutiques, your guess is much better than mine. If you know me, you know that I am not only a Gap-Banana Republic-J Crew kind of gal, I am a Gap-Banana Republic-J Crew-bought-secondhand-at-my-favorite-Goodwill kind of gal.

After I have surreptitiously taken as many photos as I feel like, I ask for help, sure that this will expose me. Sure enough, the woman is stunned that I am just a regular person who has wandered in off the street. This is a strictly invite-only event for premier wholesale buyers. She asks slightly incredulously, "You just came in off the street?"

"Why, yes. I thought this was the library."

"You saw the Lanvin sign?"


"Well, I was just following other people in."

"But you know of Lanvin?"

I lied, of course. Wouldn't you? "Yes, of course. I love Lanvin. Very beautiful." I could have been talking about plumbing flanges for all I know.

Since I am mostly honest about how I got there, and laugh about it, and tell her I am a writer, she is rather gentle as she hustles me out the door. She does at least tell me the prices I ask for and get me the business card of a PR person. What she can't tell me, however, is to where to find the library.

Cake & Pain

Cake & Pain is a headline announcing neither food poisoning nor a sudden affliction of gluten-intolerance. Actually, it is the name of a cafe/bakery I once saw in Japan, and I have always loved it as the ultimate example demonstrating the problems of mixing languages and, in that case specifically, French and English. As you start to read the sign, your brain automatically recognizes "cake" as an English word and wants to continue on. Then you find yourself saying "pain" and only after the meaning sinks in do you realize they meant to advertise bread, not agony.

Well, hello franglais. Enchanté and nice to meet you. When I was here in 1987 as a camp counselor (one month near Biarritz, exchange program during college), the Académie française, the government-appointed body created in 1635 for the purpose of defining and protecting the French language, was waging a war to keep French pure and unpolluted by English. You can easily see as you walk the streets here that that battle was long ago lost (or won, I suppose, if you do in fact want the English language to conquer the world. Mwa-ha-ha-haaaa -- evil world-domination laugh). There is English on signage everywhere, and more than that, even native French speakers speak a kind of franglais with each other.

For the first month or so, every time one of the girls would seem like they were about to run into a road without looking, I would yell, "Arrêtez!" I was the only idiot out there screaming that, because all the French people were yelling to their children to "Stop!" I've asked French people about this and they shrug -- never having given it much thought. "Well, it's just quicker to say it in English."

The classic example is "le weekend." If you try to say "la fin de la semaine," ("the end of the week"), you will probably get corrected. I am also the only idiot using the term "courriel" when all the French are not only sending "email," I've even heard them conjugating it like a French verb: j'email, tu emails, il/elle/on email, nous emailons, vous emailez, ils/elles emailent. Needless to say, virtually all words computer-related come from English (surfer l'internet, le blog, le software, le smartphone...) except, ironically, "computer," which is "ordinateur."

But it's not just technology. It's also words about style, food, and daily living. Examples are everywhere and, often, mixed in quite naturally with French. Sitting at my breakfast table, I look at the Special K box and discover that they have eight flavors of the cereal that will let me, "bye-bye la routine!" Or, did you know that pop singer Shakira is, according to Télé magazine, "In love avec un frenchie?" I do, because I speak fluent franglais, and because I spotted it at the supermarket, where all important news is transmitted. You can't tell me the French don't have a word for "good-bye", "love" or "Frenchman". They just think the English sounds cool.

As you can imagine, this is all especially confusing for P, age 6, 1st grade, as she learns to read in both French and English at the same time.

"Glaces," she reads the above sign, found in a small, non-touristy town in Normandy, rhyming it with "faces."

"No, that's in French."

"Oh. Glaces," she says in French, so that it sounds roughly like the English word "gloss." She continues: "Crêpes. Milk-shake [pronounced meelk-shock]."

"No, that's in English."

"Oh. Milk-shake," she corrects herself. "Juicy [I said they use a lot of English, but I didn't say they always use it correctly]. Desserts. Maison [Reads like Mason]."

"No, that last one was in French."

"Oh. Maison."

And so, mes chers amies, je vous dis bye-bye and au revoir pour today.

The Only Thing Constant is Change

When the pastry costs 1€ 80 centimes, I often give 2€ and 5 centimes in order to get a quarter back. They look at me funny, of course, and turn around and hand me back the 5 centimes, along with the 20 centimes they would have given me in the first place.

There are 1, 2, 5, 10, 20, and 50 centimes, along with 1€ and 2€, coins, but I frequently still find myself thinking in terms of 1, 5, 10, 25, and trying to give them coins so that I can get the least possible amount of change, accordingly. My thought process works something like this: "This costs 11,43€ (we would write 11.43€). So if I give him 12€ I get back 62 centimes. But if I can give him 3 centimes, I would get back 65 centimes." 62 centimes is actually only three coins -- 50, 10, and 2 -- as is 65 centimes, so it does me no good. But I try anyway. If this reminds you of my time-telling issues (which are now worse, because my rental phone failed to fall back at the time change in October, so all of my previous calculations have to be re-jiggered), just be glad you're not the person behind me in line. Adding to that poor person's exasperation is the fact that I am still sloooooooow when it's time to recognize my coins. I stop to examine each one carefully, looking for the denomination.

Anthony, who is far more mathematically-minded than I am, has his own money problems, since the girls have started playing with our foreign-coin collection and mixing them in with the regular change jar. At first, it is unclear to Anthony why the shopkeeper won't accept his 2€ coin, until he realizes it is, in fact, a Thai coin -- just the right size, with the silver ring around a copper-colored center. [Look above in the photo: I lined up all denominations of coins at the top, from left to right: 2€, 1€, then 50, 20, 10, 5, 2, 1 centimes. And if you look just below the 2 centimes piece, you will see what looks like a 2€ coin but is, in fact, the Thai coin, sandwiched between the 2 centimes piece and a real 2€ coin.]

I've been trying to spend down the change jar lately. When you have coins up to 2€, and the smallest paper bill is 5€ (about $7), you end up with a lot in the change jar. At almost any moment, I could come up with $50 worth of coins. Just the handful above, for example, is over 20€, or nearly $30. Several times, when I've realized I didn't have cash in my pocket nor time to stop at the ATM, I've just grabbed a big handful of coins and made it through my day without problems. Other than the woman behind me in line glaring at me impatiently. And the fact that I don't know the time. And the sagging pockets, that is. 

Meet My Best Friend, What's-her-name

P came home from school the first week excited to tell us "I have a best friend! I played with her all day!"

"What's her name?"

"I don't know. I think it starts with a 'Sss' sound..."

And so it goes.  G and I still need to ask a few times to get a name right. But for poor P and Anthony, neither of whom are terribly good with names anyway, it may take weeks or months. P is the girl who once described her best friend, the child with whom she had played every day at school for nearly two solid years, as "that girl with curly hair." I am happy to report that by now P and G do, in fact, know their friends' names. But there are still more to learn, and each time we find ourselves asking, "Say that again? How do you spell that?" and repeating the same rigamarole the second and even third time we meet someone new.  

From around 1800 until 1966, all names given on birth certificates in France had to be selected  from a pre-approved list of traditional Christian/French origin. Hence, a lot of people named Marie, Jeanne, Pierre, Paul, Jacques, and not a lot of Mohammeds in those generations. Many French people have compound names, and the second one may be in honor of somebody of the other gender but will remain unchanged: We know a woman named Marie-José, and a man named Jean-Marie. After 1966, the law expanded the approved list to include some foreign names, alternate spellings, and non-Christian names. But in 1993, the French jumped on the Apple-Insepktor-Rumer bandwagon and changed the law so that you could pretty much name your child anything, or Enneething, if you prefer. They do still retain the juridic right to refuse patently ridiculous or offensive names (as we do in the US: no swear words, numbers, etc.). That, plus the seemingly world-wide retro trend, means that there are names that are either so new you've never heard of them or so old they're new again -- and especially to non-native speakers. Some of the names we've had to learn include: (girls) Gersende, Aubane, Cypriane, Héléa, Léonine, Blandine, Thaïs, Thamar, Elvire, Laëtitia, Mylène, Arlette, Giel, Faustine, Cléophée (boys) Gamaliel, Yannick, Hadrien, Augustin, and Tancrède.

Some lists for you:

According to magicmaman.com, the top 30 girls' names in France from 2003-2005, the years P & G were born: Zoe, Sarah, Romane, Pauline, Oceane, Noemie, Mathilde, Marine, Marie, Manon, Maeva, Lucie, Louise, Lola, Lena, Lea, Laura, Justine, Juliette, Julie, Jade, Inès, Eva, Emma, Clara, Chloé, Charlotte, Celia, Camille, Anaïs. My kids have girls with at least 10 of those names in their classes.

The top 30 boys's names in France from 2003-2005: Valentin, Tom, Thomas, Théo, Romain, Raphaël, Quentin, Pierre, Paul, Nicolas, Nathan, Maxime, Matteo, Mathis, Lucas, Louis, Leo, Julien, Jules, Hugo, Dylan, Clément, Benjamin, Baptiste, Axel, Arthur, Antoine, Alexis, Alexandre, Adrien, and my girls have about a dozen of those in their classes.  

And the most popular current baby names are: (boys) Lucas, Jules, Arthur, Timéo, Gabriel, Enzo, Adam, Théo, Sacha, Clément, Yanis, Hugo, Mathis, Alexandre, Thomas, Raphaël, Nicolas, (girls) Olivia, Louise, Jade, Camille, Emma, Chloé, Inès, Clara, Zoé, Léa, Manon, Lisa, Pauline, Anaïs, Lola, and Lucie.

Family News, Non-witty Posting

Well, since I've billed this as "letters home," I feel like it's fair to use this forum to let you know that Anthony's father, Frank, passed away last night. While it is sad news, it is also a blessing in many ways, because his father's health and, perhaps more importantly, his mind had been declining rapidly in recent weeks/months, and his quality of life had suffered accordingly. We (and Anthony's brothers too we believe) feel that Frank is probably much happier this way, if that makes any sense. He was tired, and done, and somewhat aware he was declining, and at least the end for him was relatively short. He suffered a massive stroke at home on Saturday and passed away within the week.

Anthony and his brothers will now have to sort out the legalities, and it's likely that the intricacies of dealing with all the paperwork and formalities will make our complaints about French bureaucracy look petty.

This morning, the girls and I wake up late, so Anthony tells us the news just as we are getting up and he is leaving the house. Gigi is our more sensitive child, and also more aware of what this means, since she was absolutely devastated when Anthony's mother passed away 4 years ago and still misses her to this day. While she is sniffling in her room, Pippa puts the pieces together and realizes that this means Anthony doesn't have his mother or father alive anymore. She says, "Well, at least that means he can eat whatever he wants without them telling him not to." There is a girl truly driven by the promise of something good to eat.

If you have Anthony's e-mail address, I'm sure he would appreciate a quick word. If not, I'll pass on any comments received here on the blog. 

The Perfect Setting for the Perfect Setting

Walking home very late at night from the 7th arrondissement with G, after going to a choral concert and then a friend's house. Looking up, we see the Eiffel Tower not just lit up but twinkling like 324 metres (that's 1063 ft to you and me) of diamonds -- a lighting trick created for the New Year's celebration at the turn of the millenium and continued since then, nightly.

I go to take a photo of the monument, and of G standing in front of the monument, and look at my pocket camera to figure out what setting to use. Why, of course! If ever there was a time in my life to use this setting,  officially the "Night Snapshot" mode, represented by the icon showing the person in front of the Eiffel Tower at night, it is right now:

This has G and me giggling all the way home. If only there were such a perfect setting for each and every occasion -- the baby-with-food-on-face icon, husband-dressed-up-by-daughters-in-tiara-and-tutu icon, Aunt-Lisa-belly-dancing-at-twighlight icon, etc..  Well, here's the tower again, a freebie photo from a Kodak kid, just to show you as much of the twinkle as a still picture can capture with a small point-and-shoot Canon PowerShot (I left the much bigger and better Canon SLR camera at the apartment).

Liberté, Egalité, Sororité!

Walking through the Marais, and I see this wonderful sign, larger-than-life:

(Ad translation: "As my two moms say, family is sacred.")

Later in the same day, at the girls' gymnastics class, one of the moms there is telling me about trying to chase after her daughter and toddler twins running in opposite directions, and I joke that it sounds like she needs more than one of her. I make some grammatical error, and she doesn't understand me, so I re-state that they need more than one mom in the family. Lo and behold, she tells me, they do have two moms.

On behalf of my many lesbian and gay friends, I want to know what it is like for a gay family in Paris and so I ask, outright. She tells me that they attend a large and very old Catholic school in the city. It surprises me, because I saw that school when touring last spring, and it seemed very strict: children in matching smocks no less. She tells me they are the first gay family ever to attend the school (at least that the school knows about, that is). And that they have not encountered any real problems so far. Of course it's only her daughter's first year (Kindergarten), so only time will tell. She and her partner are, she points out, very mainstream in appearance and demeanor. She is sure this makes it easier for the school to accept them, and they are still are pretty quiet about their family structure in general. But she has been pleased at the emphasis the school places on acceptance and kindness as opposed to stricter dogma choices.

Even with the smooth school transition, there are logistical problems, since gay marriage is still not legal in France. She and her partner are not "PACSed" (Pacte Civil de Solidarité or domestic partnership contract), so she says that her partner has no legal claim to the children, and neither mother has a claim on the other's assets. Her partner is not allowed to adopt the child, nor to be on the birth certificate, passport, or livret de famille (all-important book that records family here in France). The lack of legal link is especially difficult because in France, the court almost always decides on family (legal/blood-related, that is) for children's custody issues, even in the case of existing wills, PACS agreements, whatever: patriarchal society and all. Which may explain why virtually all of the French friends I've asked -- people of means and education -- tell me they have no will drawn up at all. From an American perspective, this is almost shocking neglegence, but here people shrug and leave it to the government (given the pace and dispassion of bureaucracy here, I'd think they'd be more likely to want iron-clad wills!). Apparently, this family's strategy is that the birth-mother can't die before the children grow to the age of adulthood. Of course, this is also our family's strategy, but not for legal reasons.

I thought I had met, separately, the two mothers of a little girl in P's grade, a lovely lesbian couple. But it turns out instead that there are two different girls, both with the same unusual name, both in P's grade at her school, both of whom live on Ile St. Louis around the corner from us. So, two mothers for two different girls. I've told them both of my initial error, and they were in no way fazed that I'd made that assumption.

So, Paris is behind San Francisco in regard for gay families. Of course, nearly every place is behind San Francisco on this respect -- our own insane flip-flopping legal status of gay marriage notwithstanding. But at least there appears to be progress.

Christmas Past, Present, Future

Christmas Past

As predicted, removing the Particularly Picky Pine is, in fact, no fun. But in different ways than expected. We thought that Anthony would have to bring the tree downstairs by, essentially, hugging a cactus. But what happens instead is that the tree is so fully dried out that during the painful process of tying up the branches, every single needle falls onto the floor. [For the sake of not causing my mother to have a heart attack, I must add here that the lights had long been taken off, and there was neither any source of electricity nor flame anywhere near the tree.]

It is heavier than expected, even all dried up like that, and Anthony has to lug it not just downstairs but all the way across Ile St. Louis, over the bridge, and to a tree collection spot at a park. While he does that, our floor is carpeted, literally inches thick, with green needles, so P and I sweep up the living room and the hallway path the tree had taken. We also pick up the needles by hand from the staircase in the apartment building since it would really be too cruel to let people track the splinters-waiting-to-happen into their apartments.

Anthony returns and vacuums up all the needles that have fallen in the [many, large] gaps of our old hardwood floors. Later, he goes to vacuum up a mess in the kitchen and discovers that our vacuum cleaner is now thoroughly, and perhaps permanently, pine-scented. Wearily, he turns to me, "Next year, get a Nordmann, please. And much smaller." Duly noted.

Christmas Present

There are a couple new games we are addicted to, and most of all Les Aventuriers du Rail, Ticket to Ride, a fantastic strategy game of bulding train routes -- ours is the Europe version. This is G's favorite gift, and she is determined to beat Anthony and me someday, though we try our hardest and she hasn't managed it yet. P's favorite present is....a Whoopie Cushion. G is also very excited by her Whoopie Cushion, but P's love for the Whoopie Cushion turns out to be more deeply-felt and long-lasting. It is the one Christmas gift she tells everybody about. Our home is filled with the merry sounds of laughter. And farting. Way to go, Santa!

Christmas Future

There are several classic Paris Christmas spots we just could not manage to hit over the vacation. We had plenty of time, mind you, just not enough get-up-and-go. After four months of living out of suitcases and so much traveling, the girls just wanted to spend their days in pajamas, playing games. We had some playdates, some wonderful holiday celebrations, and a whole lot of hanging-around time. But if there's one thing we love about knowing we will be here for at least a couple years, it's that we don't have to stuff everything in. So, on next year's agenda: the lights at the Galeries Lafayette and the Christmas markets on the Champs Elysées.

Très Sexy

I am in the land of the French accent, acknowledged almost universally -- and especially by my husband -- as the sexiest accent in the world. And yet, today I receive another compliment on my accent, which has been called "charming", "sexy", "adorable"(my favorite), "French-Canadian" (my least favorite -- have you ever heard Quebecois?), and many other heart-warming adjectives. My object all along has been to have no accent, of course, but it appears that I am not quite there. My level of French, which is fluent but not perfect, is evidently just as charming to the people here as it is to us when they speak English wees a leetle 'je ne sais quoi' in ze way zay prononce ze words.

Sometimes, I can hear the difference between what I want to produce and what I actually say. At these times, I can be heard muttering under my breath English sentences with a French accent: I am trying to figure out what level my accent is and to hear what it must sound like to them. At other times, I would swear my accent is perfect, only to be asked either, "And where are you from that you speak such lovely French?" or "How long have you lived in France?" My greatest consolation at these moments is that I can honestly answer "from the United States" or "four months" and that either answer is sure to elicit a look of shock.

I must tell you, this reminds me of when I was backbacking around Asia in my early twenties with my friend Andi, and we became friends with a Swedish guy. He told me rather lasciviously that I should go to Sweden, because I would be a huge hit with all the men there. I asked, rather surprised, "But aren't all the women in Sweden tall, blond, blue-eyed, and beautiful?" And he said, "Exactly! You would be so exotic!"  Hmmm...I'm not sure how to take that.

Well, it turns out that by giving our daughters the gift of bilingualism, we are inadvertantly depriving them of the gift of a sexy accent. Eet eez too bahd for zem, but for me, ooh la la, I sound fantasteek!

The Pastry on Everybody's Lips

It's 6 janvier (January), and that means it's out with the Bûche de Noël (Yule Log) we saw everywhere for the past two months, and in with the Galette des Rois (King's Cake) for Epiphany. For the Epiphany. Evidently, I don't know enough about Catholicism to use that confidently in a sentence.

Today, according to the story told to G by her teachers and then transmitted shorthand to us, is the day to celebrate when the three kings went to visit the newly-born baby Jesus. And because of this, families all over France -- ourselves included -- are eating Galette des Rois for dessert. It's a round disk of very flaky puff pastry with a frangipane/sweet almond paste center. Very simple and suprisingly good. Not suprisingly, eating it makes a huge mess.

But the point of a Galette des Rois is not the taste, though that's nice. The point is to see who will get the fève (little "favor" made of ceramic) that is baked into the cake. Children at schools, whether religious or not, generally have a Galette des Rois celebration and, sure enough, both of our girls are wearing crowns when I pick them up after school today. G tells me excitedly that she was the one in her class who got the fève! Yeah! Except that P did not get the fève, now or ever (everybody in her class got a crown) and we get to hear about that for the rest of the day.

After dinner, I cut up the Galette and, thank God, I hit just the right spot to feel the fève as I'm cutting. Of course that is the piece that ends up P's plate because Hell hath no fury like a six year old whose sister gets a fève but she does not. And so, all are happy.

Hard to see in the photos, but G's fève is a cute little alien guy, and P's is a pretty ring. Traditionally, they would have been baby Jesuses -- baby Jesii? -- (when the fève tradition started in the late 1700s) or little Kings (more recently centuries), but we even have a couple in the house that are Avatars, from the film. So fève are very hip and rolling with the times.

Further note on the Galette des Rois tradition: Usually, the person who finds the fève is responsible for picking a king or queen to "reign" with them for the day. I know one couple in San Francisco who both attended a French-immersion school as children and did the whole Galette tradition in class. He got the fève in third grade, I think, and picked her as his queen and now, approximately 40 years later, they are married and send their children to the same French school in San Francisco. Beware the power of the fève!

And on another note: They haven't really taken all the Bûche de Noël out of the bakeries yet. It's two weeks after Christmas! Who is still buying them? And will there be a "must-buy" pastry every month? Perhaps that's how they keep so many patisseries in business.

Bureaucracy: Coming Soon to a Theater Near You!

Our visit to the OFII office to get our cartes de séjour (finally, finally!) has all the elements of an excellent movie: suspense (will they get the cards or won't they?), setbacks (but wait, here's a new hoop to jump through), surprise (bet you didn't see that twist!), laughter and tears (because it's a fine line between pleasure and pain, and once it gets ricidulous enough, even French bureaucracy can be funny), an underdog (yippee, it isn't us!), a formidable, fiendish foe (the unsinkable French bureaucracy), even a memorable catch phrase (in this case, "Non! C'est pas possible!" -- "No! It's not possible!"). 

There is always a certain amount of sadism involved in bureaucracy, and that much more if it's French bureaucracy (remember their motto?: We're Not Infamous For Nothing!). But today, the fonctionnaire in question is really in fine form.

We arrive at the precise time of our appointment, only to wait 40 minutes to go in and get weighed and measured, have our eyesight tested, and then disrobe halfway, smash our faces against a machine, and have our chests X-rayed. Another 20 minute wait to go in and meet with the doctors who -- huge sigh of relief -- don't actually ask to see our vaccination records which we have somehow lost in transit. The doctors don't do the same things with both of us (Anthony has his blood pressure and heart rate measured, whereas I just chit-chat with my doctor). They tell us our X-rays are fine and send us on our way. And then, it's another 10 minute wait to receive our papers which allow us to go the final line which appears like it will take 15 minutes. It all seems too easy to be true. Cue ominous music.

We have been carefully sent OFII forms for just this occasion with very specific amounts on them: 340€ for me and 70€ for Anthony. We cannot explain the price discrepancy, but Anthony's theory is that since he's the one with the job here, the government sees me as dead weight. The letter was received late last week, end Dec 2011. Anthony needs to go to a local tabac (tobacco & sundries store) in order to buy a certain kind of government stamp for this amount. The first one he finds doesn't have amounts large enough for my big bill, so it takes him two tries, but eventually he is able to buy the stamps. The form specifies my fee should be comprised of 4 x 55€ stamps and 8 x 15€ stamps. However, Anthony doesn't buy the stamps till just yesterday, January 2, 2012, and as of the New Year, they no longer make 55€ or 15€ denominations. So he buys 340€ worth in different denominations.

I know that right now you are thinking it's too bad he procrastinated, because clearly we are screwed, but no: This is the "surprise!" moment.  An Asian-looking but French-speaking lady in front of us -- the Underdog -- steps up to the counter with last year's stamps in the correct denominations and is told unceremoniously that last year's tickets are no good! She must go to the tabac across the street at 41 rue de la Roquette for several hundred Euro more in stamps, and will have to cross her fingers she can return last year's stamps to a tabac. And the audience feels a wave of relief as the protagonist (Anthony) is rewarded for his procrastination!

A few minutes later, the Underdog returns and rather than wait again in the long line, she steps to the counter for the second time, and plops down a new batch of stamps, only to be told there is an additional 19€ charge. "What?!," we all ask. "Is that true for everybody?" We are all wildly checking the forms to see any mention of this. Yes, it is an additional fee levied since Oct 1, 2011 (even though the letters with our amounts were sent to us two month after that). More surprise and setbacks! An unexpected charge! Not mentioned anywhere! This is an undisputably perfect foil in that it is both arbitrary and unforeseeable. So, Anthony runs down to 41 rue de la Roquette and buys 19€ more of stamps for each of us. I let other people in line pass me by, though most of them, too, have to run to 41 rue de la Roquette.

The Underdog returns and steps to the front again, for the third time, where she learns she is 1€ short. Cue fonctionnaire, who drops her head in her hands: "Non! C'est pas possible!" Her delivery is spot on, and conveys a level of long-suffering and pain that you and I will never know, even if our homes burn down, our dogs run away, and every appliance in our temporary motel breaks down simultaneously. This is the moment that sets me over the edge and I laugh (discreetly: don't want to piss off the fonctionnaire) till I cry, which works out well for me since I have had an eyelash stuck in my eye for two hours, and it finally gets washed out. It's true: Laughter really is the best medicine.

"Non!," she mutters weakly, "C'est pas possible!" Yes, yes it is possible. Probably because Underdog has been running back and forth across the street carrying little stamps on an extremely windy day. You're thinking, "Why don't they just let people pay at the office?" Well, if they did that, there wouldn't be a movie, now would there?

Underdog and Anthony both return. Underdog, on her fourth attempt, is finally given her carte de séjour, and there is a heartfelt but discreet wave of support for her. Discreet because we don't want to incur the wrath of the fonctionnaire. But there is a sort of solidarity here: If I am ever walking in the streets of Paris and run into the Chinese lady, the couple from Mali, the Indian guy I translate for, or Underdog, I swear I will walk up and greet them with bisous (kisses on the cheeks). I even get the e-mail address for the Canadian guy behind us (yes, he too visited 41 rue de la Roquette) so we can have him and his wife over for a carte de séjour celebration: I think in keeping with the theme, we will deny them entry to our apartment until they show us their cartes de séjour and pay whatever arbitrary fees we tack on.

So now we can end your suspense: Anthony walks out of there with his carte de séjour . And I run out of there with mine, because by now I will be late to pick the girls up from school. As the credits start to roll, you can see me jogging through the streets of Paris till I arrive at the school hot, sweaty, and tired -- but legal, legal at last.

The Place to Be On New Year's Eve...

....is, evidently, our apartment. Or, more specifically, the bridge in front of our apartment. This is not the place to be if you are the masses, mind you. Then you head over to the Champs Elysées -- the Times Square New Year's spot of Paris. But if you, like us and our friends, would do almost anything to avoid huge crowds and drunken twenty-somethings groping each other on this very special night, then our place turns out to be a very fine place indeed.

We throw a rather last-minute party, planned out only over the course of the past few days, because some of our local friends tell us that the pedestrian bridge between the two isles -- the one we overlook -- is a lovely place to meet up with people and toast at midnight. The weather cooperates, and it works out extra perfectly because one of our guests, who hasn't felt well and is too tired to go down to the bridge, gets to spend New Year's Eve (which happens to be her wedding anniversary) with her husband on the deck, overlooking the madness instead.

There are illegal fireworks set off over the Seine around midnight, and we are out there toasting with champagne. Our girls and their friends are running around, chasing each other (and some boys), having a blast. A group of teenage boys sees us with plastic cups, champagne glasses, and a bottle and asks for some. I feel so American and prudish saying "no" but even the French parents we are with are shaking their heads "no." Somehow, this fact makes me feel both better and worse: better in that I feel less like I am a prudish American, but worse in that I feel more like a stodgy middle-aged parent.

We have a half dozen families, with kids, and fully expect to get the children, especially the younger ones (3-6 years old) to sleep well before midnight in a slumber party on the floor of the girls' room. But surprise, surprise, these are children being raised in Europe, and they have no problem staying up till 2am! OK, I exaggerate but only in one tiny respect: The three-year old starts to fade around 1am and is taken home in the arms of her father (awake, but at least tired). P falls asleep during the bedtime story just after 2am, but one of her adorable seven-year old friends who is sleeping over asks for more books to be read.

 

P's comment when she wakes up this morning is, "That was the best party ever! Can we do that again?!" I have to explain to her that it only happens once a year. Then, in a sudden epiphany, I realize she has no idea what New Year means, or even that midnight means a new day, every day. It's funny how I will immediately explain to her new French concepts (cultural or linguistic) but my assumption -- incorrect it turns out -- is that she understands everything about the American culture and English language already. And then something like this reminds me that much of what we say or do is going above her six-year old head. What has she been imagining all these years when we talk about midnight? Or said "Happy New Year" for that matter? What has she thought it signified?

We welcome new friends, and even newer friends, and even some friends of friends, and I can't say I've enjoyed a New Year's Eve more in years. Great wine and champagne, Just Dance competitions on the Wii (G is the undisputed champion), and the table is laden with delicious food. That includes chocolate chip cookies I've made, knowing they are not a very elegant food but that they will be a big hit with Americans, French, young and old alike. And the pièce de résistance -- this is not hyperbole, mind you -- the best cheese platter Anthony and I have ever enjoyed in our lives. One of our guests, Agnes, has completely outdone herself in bringing cheeses. Believe me, you will be hearing more about this cheese platter. For now, just know that it makes the cheese platter that was at your New Year's Eve party look like Velveeta and Cheez Whiz.


Happy 2012 and a Bonne Année to all!